Rake Beyond Redemption (6 page)

‘I might,’ Zan admitted.

‘I envy her.’ She raised her chin higher. ‘What I don’t understand is why you went into fast retreat when you learned my name, as if an overwhelming force had appeared on the horizon.’

His eyes released her at last. Turning from her, Zan picked up a wizened apple from the shelf and offered it to the stallion, who crunched it with relish. ‘What did Meggie say?’ he asked, stroking his hand down the satin neck.

‘That you are a smuggler and I shouldn’t associate with you. But that’s not it. Everyone seems to have some connection with smuggling here. Harriette was a smuggler. George Gadie is a smuggler and Meggie doesn’t disapprove of him. Or not much.’

His eyes snapped from the stallion back to her, fierce as a hawk. ‘You don’t want to know me.’

‘
I
choose whom I wish to know. I am not a child.’

‘Your family would disapprove.’

‘But why?’

A pause. Would he tell her? ‘I’ll not tell you that.’

‘Then you must allow me to make my own judgements. Do I go, Zan? Or do I stay?’

It was a deliberate challenge. If he wanted her to go, he must tell her so. She would not move one inch otherwise. She could read nothing in his face, anticipate nothing of his thoughts. And so was surprised when she heard him issue the invitation.

‘Since you’re here, I suppose I must take you into the house and provide you with the tea that never materialised at the Boat.’

Something had changed his mind. She inclined her head graciously. ‘It would be polite.’

He retrieved his coat from the stall partition and remarked drily, ‘I know the form after all. My mother was a stickler for good manners. I was at least
raised
as a gentleman.’

‘I never doubted it. And I would like to see your house.’ She fell into step beside him.

‘You’ll be disappointed.’

He took her hand, drew it through his arm, to lead her out of the stable courtyard towards the main entrance.

Until she hesitated. Looked up at him, head tilted.

‘What’s wrong? Have you changed your mind after all? Not willing to risk stepping into a smuggler’s den of iniquity?’

‘Not at all. I simply wondered why you led me to think that you were raised as an unmannered lout. Not that you will tell me, of course.’

He laughed at her prim reply. ‘You’ll prise no secrets from me, Madame Mermaid!’

Abruptly he opened the door into the entrance hall and stood back so that she could enter.

Marie-Claude stepped into his home. ‘Do you live here alone?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Are you changing your mind again?’

‘No. Are you? Do you not want me here?’

‘I invited you. I have a housekeeper. Mrs Shaw.’

‘I did not think I would need a chaperon, Zan,’ she chided gently. She stood in the centre of the entrance hall and turned slowly round, taking in her surroundings. ‘Will you show me around?’

‘If you wish. It won’t take long.’

He opened the doors that led off the entrance hall, into the library, two small parlours, a withdrawing room, a little room with an escritoire that still held traces of his mother who had used it for her endless letter-writing. He watched Marie-Claude with some amusement as she inspected each room without comment. Without expression. Finally, calling along a corridor to an invisible Mrs Shaw for tea, he led her back into the library, where she sat on the dusty cushions of the sofa, hands neatly folded in her lap.

‘Well? What do you think?’

‘Disreputable,’ she remarked immediately. ‘What are you thinking to allow this?’

He gave a crack of laughter at the directness of her censure. Then Zan sobered, frowned. ‘No money to spend on it.’

‘I was thinking soap and water, rather than money. What is your housekeeper doing? And is smuggling not a lucrative trade? I was under the impression there were fortunes to be made if a smuggler was not too nice in his choice of companions. We hear talk of the vicious
rogues in the smuggling gangs even in London. I know all about rogues…’ She shivered as if a draught had touched her arms.

‘It can be lucrative, as you say, with the right contacts,’ he offered.

‘Are you a member of a smuggling gang?’

‘No. I am not.’

‘Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.’

‘I’m sure you did mean it! But I forgive you and I assure you I’m not a vicious rogue. When I organise a run, I use my own operation from the bay, and my own cutter.’ The door opened to admit the spare form of the housekeeper, bearing a tray. ‘And here’s Mrs Shaw with refreshment.’

Whilst Zan leaned his weight back against the edge of the desk, arms folded, Marie-Claude removed her gloves and took charge, murmuring her thanks despite the housekeeper’s chill disapproval of an unchaperoned female visitor, then proceeded to dispense tea with skilled assurance, measuring the amount from the inlaid box, pouring the pale liquid into fragile china cups. Zan took the cup offered to him.

‘I can at least guarantee the quality of this,’ he remarked drily.

‘I’m sure you can.’ She sipped. ‘And doubtless your brandy too. Has it paid any duty?’

‘Not that I know of!’

‘Tell me what you do when you are not smuggling.’

Zan cast himself into one of the chairs and proceeded, against all his good intentions, to tell her the trivial nothings of life on the run-down Ellerdine estate whilst Marie-Claude sat and listened, asking a question when it seemed appropriate. How strange it was. How
surreal. There they sat and exchanged polite conversation as if they were in a London withdrawing room, certainly not as if an intense undercurrent throbbed on the air between them. Later Marie-Claude had no clear idea of either her questions or his answers. Only that he had not taken his eyes from her.

Mon Dieu.
How confusing this all was. Marie-Claude felt like a butterfly on a pin. His replies were brusque, his dark beauty and stern demeanour never exactly encouraging, yet she felt astonishingly at ease in his company. Eventually she put down her cup. Replaced her gloves. Rose gracefully to her feet and held out her hand to him.

‘I must go. Morning calls should only last half an hour, should they not?’

‘So I understand. I’m sure you’re well versed in such
social niceties.
’ He bent his head in a formal salute to her knuckles, a glint of humour lighting his dark eyes at last. His lips brushed softly against her skin.

‘You have been most hospitable.’ She managed a smile as her heart jolted with desire. ‘Will you come to Lydyard’s Pride one afternoon? For tea?’

‘No. I will not.’

The humour vanished. The whole pleasant house of cards they had just constructed collapsed around them.

‘Why not?’

‘I would not be made welcome there.’

‘But why would you not? What on earth have you done to cause this
impasse
? Meggie will not say, and neither will you. How can I accept what I do not understand?’ She frowned at him, her dark brows meeting in frustration. ‘You don’t like the Hallastons, do you?’

‘No.’

‘There! Again! That’s no answer, Zan.’ Her fingers gripped hard when he would have released them. ‘Why won’t you tell me the truth?’

‘Because I choose not to. Goodbye.’ He kissed her fingers once more with an elegant little bow. ‘You have made your morning call and reprimanded me for my lack of duty in fulfilling my own obligations to you. You have seen and disparaged the way I live. Let that be an end to it. Whatever is between us—it can be explained away as a momentary foolishness. We should acknowledge it and bury it. It’s good advice, Madame Mermaid. I advise you to take it.’

‘No. I won’t.’ The frown became almost a scowl. How effective he was at dismissing her, at putting her at a distance. ‘Three days ago you called me Marie-Claude. Your told me I was beautiful and that you had known me all your life. And now you tell me to put it aside as if it had no meaning? Three days ago you
kissed
me.’

‘So I did and I should not have done so. Forget what happened.’

‘I will not.’ A determination stormed through Marie-Claude, to hold tight to what she believed might be if he would only allow it. ‘If you will not come to me at the Pride, then I must come to you. But you have to agree. I’ll not force myself on you or be a trouble to you.’

‘You don’t know what you’re stepping into. You don’t know me.’

‘I know what I see,’ she persisted. ‘A man who is brave, who risked his own safety to rescue an unknown woman.’

‘And kissed her in an inn parlour. Hardly a reputable act.’

‘Yes, you did. And then you took me home to save my reputation, from some ridiculous sense of honour!’

His lips twisted. ‘Don’t think too well of me.’

‘I’ll think what I like, what I know here.’ And Marie-Claude placed her palm flat against her heart.

For a long moment he looked at her as if he were reading her thoughts, considering an answer. Even searching for a decision. For the length of that moment Marie-Claude thought that he would dismiss her again.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘I am thinking that, almost, you persuade me, Madame Mermaid.’

And Zan Ellerdine, for better or worse, made a decision.

Drawing her close, he released her hands to slide his arms around her waist so that she fit perfectly against him, then lowered his head and laid his mouth against hers. Warm and firm, as was hers in reply. He deliberately kept the pressure gentle, seductive, tender even, sinking into her scent, her soft curves. Even when desire flooded through him, prompting him to pounce and ravage, he maintained the control to keep his demand light. His senses swam and he was suddenly iron-hard, but he lifted his head and smoothed the pad of his thumb over her cheek.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll not come to the Pride. Come here if you wish. I’ll not turn you away. But you must take care—if you tell them at the Pride, they’ll try to turn you away from me.’

‘So will you meet with me, Zan?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Come to the cliffs. Tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Will you call me by my name?’

‘I will call you by your name.’ His lips, soft as a breath, devastating as a spear of lightning, a seductive promise on hers. Or was it a warning? Marie-Claude was not sure.

‘Adieu
, Marie-Claude. Until tomorrow. If you dare…’

S
he dared! Marie-Claude kept the assignation. Nothing other than the Crack of Doom would have kept her away. And now she found herself seated in the stern of the
Black Spectre
, fighting to catch her breath, racing with the waves and the wind towards the far headland, the sails taut and full.

‘Come with me, Marie-Claude,’ he had demanded. ‘We’ll launch the
Spectre.
Come and sail with me across the bay.’ There he had stood on the cliff top as if he would bar her way. He was impossibly, outrageously persuasive. And so splendid to look at, his even teeth glinting in a smile that challenged her mettle, his black hair shining, lifted by the relentless breeze. ‘I’ll make a sailor of you yet.’

Her heart had leapt, with fear, excitement, desire. ‘No, I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I think I’m afraid…’

‘Afraid?’ He seized her hand, tugged, as his careless smile tugged at her heart. ‘You have the courage to do
anything, Madame Mermaid. I swear water’s your element. All you have to do is say yes.’

She doubted, after her recent ordeal, any affinity with water deeper than two inches, but could not refuse. Nor did she need to. He had swept her up into his arms before she could say either yes or no, carried her through the shallows and deposited her, hands firm about her waist, on to the planking of the
Black Spectre.
Zan Ellerdine had a distinct tendency towards the domineering.

Now here she was, denying her basic fear of open sea to be with him, and it was everything she had imagined it could be if she could overcome her trepidation. Windblown she might be, clinging to the side with rigid fingers, but exhilaration sang through her blood. Nor was it the speed and uncontrolled movement of the little cutter that forced her to catch her breath, even though it leapt over the water with the power of a runaway horse. Given the opportunity to study Zan whilst he was occupied, she felt free to watch the flex and play of his shoulders and back beneath the fine linen of his shirt, the strain of his muscled thighs as he braced against the kick of the waves. If she had enjoyed watching him groom his horse, how much more aware of him was she now as he leapt to secure a rope? Of his potent masculinity, the understated power of his body, the smooth control of interlocked muscle and flesh and sinew.

Suddenly he was standing before her, his body blocking out the light.

‘Why are you clinging to the side?’

‘The waves seem very close,’ she admitted as the spray rose and fell between them in a sparkling arc.

‘I’ll not let you fall overboard. Don’t you trust me?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She squinted up at him through the drops. ‘I think the sea has a mind of its own.’

Placing a booted foot on the seat next to her, he leaned to peel her fingers away from their grip. ‘There—you’re quite safe.’ Then he pressed his lips to the very centre of each palm—first one, then the other—before placing her hands firmly in her lap. ‘I promise to bring you safe home. Just sit there and enjoy it.’

And then he was gone to trim a flapping sail. Marie-Claude closed her fingers over that invisible imprint, still conscious of his closeness. The heat and power of his body as he had leaned against her. What would it be like to lie in those arms, to feel the weight of his thighs?

She turned her face away and shivered, considering whether she should feel some element of guilt. It was impossible to deny that she was acting against some unspoken disapproval, but since no one was prepared to spell out the truth for her she could hardly blame herself. She would snatch at the happiness that was offered. Never had she felt so full of joy, so awake to every sensation. So there was no guilt, no remorse, only a close-knitting into a seamless whole of all that she was with him.

Even when he was too busy to give her any attention it felt as if his mind caressed her. Soft, smooth as the silk he admitted to smuggling, she luxuriated in his presence and dreamed. Until she realised that the old fisherman, Zan’s efficient crew, was frowning at her.

She raised her brows and he came over.

‘What is it, Mr Gadie?’

As weather-beaten as the fishing smacks in the bay, George Gadie propped himself against the thwart at her side. ‘The family won’t like it.’

Marie-Claude sighed. Here it was again. ‘Why would they not?’

‘Not my place to say, mistress.’

‘Then I make my own decisions. No one has given me a good reason why I should not have Mr Ellerdine as my friend. Why should a sail in the
Spectre
be a subject for any man’s disapproval?’

‘It’ll cause trouble. I’m not saying as I agree with what’s said against him—but don’t say I didn’t warn you, mistress.’

‘I won’t. I see no cause for trouble.’ A trip of anger surprised her. ‘And do I not have you or Meggie as permanent mentor and chaperon? There’s nothing inappropriate in what I do. I am a respectable widow.’

She knew bright colour surged in her cheeks, nothing to do with the effect of the brisk wind. Nothing inappropriate? There was everything inappropriate in the line of her thoughts as her attention moved to Zan when he loped across the little vessel to secure a rope with those clever, long-fingered hands. Marie-Claude’s belly became mellow and liquid with longing. The glamour of his loose-limbed grace and handsome face struck home once more.

‘I will have him as my friend if I choose to,’ she said. ‘I’ll hear no more from you.’

The old fisherman’s lips shut with a hearty smack. ‘Aye, aye, mistress.’ He saluted. ‘You’ll do as you wish, I expect.’

Yes, she would.

But George’s words would not go away, spoiling the moment, forcing Marie-Claude to grasp at honesty. What was she doing?

Flying in the face of her upbringing, certainly. Of all she had been taught, all the principles instilled in her.

A daughter of the de la Roche did not engage in casual affairs. Did not throw aside all ideas and tenets of morality and good breeding. A well-mannered husband, marriage, family—that was as her upbringing dictated, that should have been her expectation in life.

‘But it is not enough!’ she informed a passing gull.

Nor was the life she was leading. Comfort, indeed luxury, a choice of houses in which to live, a thriving son, a loving family. An assured future. She must be the most selfish creature alive to cast all this aside in her mind as
unsatisfactory.
But it was. It was all enveloping, endlessly suffocating. Restricting every thought, every movement to fit with what the London
ton
considered respectable.

‘Respectable!’ She issued the word as a challenge as the gull circled and dived into the waves.

She lived, breathed, dressed in the most fashionable of garments, enjoying the pretty clothes that her jointure allowed her. When in London she danced, rode in Hyde Park, laughed.

But was smothered by it all. Stifled by respectability.

She was grateful to Harriette and Luke. Horribly grateful. And always would be. But she was only halfalive. Was this it for her, for ever? To exist, only half-awake?

‘I have a half-life. And I want to live!’

Marie-Claude gripped hard on the glossy wood of the
Spectre
’s gunwale. After Marcus’s death, she had escaped death, dishonour, appalling fear for herself and her baby son. Of course she would never wish to return to those days, but she recalled how her blood had run hot in her determination to break free from Jean-Jacques Noir and his evil plans. In the intervening years her
blood seemed to settle into a dull sluggishness that horrified her. Was she now to sink into tedious oblivion, a widow, a doting and ageing aunt to Luke and Harriette’s children?

‘No! I won’t!’

Although the wind snatched her words away, they still lingered to echo in her mind as her eyes again sought the man who stood by the mast in utmost mastery of the vessel, shirt billowing at sleeve and neck. This man had come into her life, had awoken her. Had stirred her senses into flame. Until that moment in the inn parlour she had not fully understood how desolate her heart had become.

At that moment he turned his head, shouted an order to George Gadie to reef the sail as they would tack into the wind. What did he offer her? Ah, that was the problem. He offered her nothing. Nor ever would, she suspected. He was an enigma. A man with dark shadows. He had saved her and surely would not hurt her, but had shown a coldly calculating streak as he had tried to put her at a distance. He would have succeeded if she had not been so determined to have her own way. He could be ruthless too, she thought, given the right circumstances. And there was a guarded secrecy that trapped him, some mystery that he would not talk of. Certainly he had a reputation. He had not denied being a rake or a libertine, had he?

The mere thought of his mouth on hers took her breath away entirely. Marie-Claude closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun.

You don’t want to know me.

Well, she did, despite her confusion. But what did she want from him? Friendship? Zan Ellerdine was not a
friend. What he was she did not rightly know, but it was not friendship that placed him at the centre of her thoughts and her dreams. He was a difficult and dangerous man to associate with.

Would she risk his threat to her reputation?

‘I am afraid that I might!’

This time there was an answer. ‘Are you talking to yourself or the gulls? What do they say? Beware, Madame Mermaid, or they’ll
gull
you into believing that happiness is possible in this life!’

Opening her eyes, Marie-Claude laughed. For there he was beside her again, lounging on the wooden seat, head thrown back to the kiss of sun. At once she knew the answer. Yes, she would risk all, whatever the future would hold, to grasp this one chance. Happiness? Who could know? But she would snatch this moment with this man, and all the rest he offered her. And if he was willing, she would have him as her lover. Breathless at the enormity of her decision, Marie-Claude’s fingers itched to touch his face, but she was suddenly shy.

‘And is happiness not possible?’

‘I’d say not. But I’m not the man to ask!’

‘I’m happy today.’

‘Then that’s enough. Well, Galatea? Does it please you, to sail the
Spectre
?’ His eyes gleamed, travelled over her face. Gone was the shadow of their previous meetings, the bitter self-regard, even the cynicism of a few moments ago. Today he was filled with a wild euphoria, his spirits soaring. And it was infectious.

‘Yes. It pleases me. I feel full of light—as if the glittering spray has become trapped in my veins.’ She tilted her chin. ‘Galatea?’

‘A beautiful woman,’ he replied with utmost solemnity,
‘who threw herself into the waves when her lover was murdered and so became a sea nymph.’

‘What a weak-willed female!’ A provocative arch of brows. ‘I’m no Galatea!’

‘No?’

‘Are you flirting with me, Zan?’

‘Most definitely, Marie-Claude!’

His gaze grew intense, capturing hers. The intoxication of the glittering sea faded in comparison with the dark glow of his eyes. Marie-Claude held her breath as he leaned close.

‘If we were alone, I’d kiss you. As it is…’ he whispered in her ear, his breath warm on her cheek. ‘As it is, you’ll have to imagine my lips on yours until I have the chance to show you.’

‘How scandalous you are, Mr Ellerdine!’

‘How enchanting you are, Madame Mermaid.’ Suddenly his hand caught her chin. ‘I regret—but I can neither resist nor wait until we reach land.’

Sliding his hand until it curled round the nape of her neck, he leaned to place his lips on her, a firm pressure that tasted of sun and salt, a riot of feelings. Marie-Claude closed her eyes against the brightness, to fix her senses on the kiss that lingered, enticed.

‘Have we shocked the gulls?’ she murmured at last, blinded by the light, swamped with pleasure, as he raised his head.

‘I fear we have. And George Gadie who’s pretending not to notice. Do you care?’

Her eyes snapped to his. They were audaciously challenging.

‘Do you care, Marie-Claude?’ he murmured, a mere breath from her lips.

‘No, I don’t.’ Scandalous, indeed, Marie-Claude admitted. ‘I don’t care at all. Kiss me again, Zan.’

They returned to the beach, tacking against the push of the wind. Zan leapt down into the shallows, turning to lift Marie-Claude, lifting her high to set her down on the dry shingle.

‘Go on. I’ll help George to pull the
Spectre
up. Then I’ll come to you.’ Zan pushed her gently in the direction of the harbour wall. ‘I’ll join you. You were a magnificent sailor.’

He watched her plod determinedly up the shingle.

He turned back to his cutter, only to find George looking askance at him—and cursed himself silently for allowing his inexplicable feelings to be quite so transparent.

‘Well?’

‘Hope you know what you’re doing, y’r honour.’

Zan tensed at the implied criticism, but refused to be drawn. ‘By God, I hope I do. When did I ever not? I’m no victim of blind chance, as you well know, George.’

‘As you’d like to have some of us believe, sir.’

‘What am I supposed to understand from that masterly statement?’ Zan asked, not entirely pleased.

‘Nothin’, y’r honour. Just that you might think as you can pull the wool over the eyes of them as knows you best, and has an affection for you. But you can’t. Some of us is too old to be fooled. Some of us would say you don’t deserve the reputation you’ve chosen to carry on your shoulders—’

‘No! Enough!’ Zan snapped, suddenly aware of the direction the old fisherman’s accusation was heading.

But George Gadie was in full flow and fierce scowl.
‘Some of us’d say you should come clean and put the blame where it lies. No one who knows you could possibly think you’ve sold your soul to the devil, no matter what you told Miss Harriette and her Earl. And some of us—’

Zan’s hand flashed to grip George’s wrist. ‘And some of us should keep their mouths shut,’ he snarled. ‘D’you understand me?’

‘Aye. I understand right enough. But it’s not right…’

‘I don’t care, George. You’ll say nothing at this moment. I don’t want to hear even a hint of what you’re thinking. If I do—you’ll have me to deal with.’